


They Call Him 'Troubled'

by ilikemovies



Series: Obscurity [1]
Category: Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Drugs, Gangs, Gen, Harry Styles - Freeform, Hospital, Overdose, Styles - Freeform, Trauma, Violence, addict, celebrity, harry - Freeform, traumatic childhood, troubled
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-10 07:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikemovies/pseuds/ilikemovies
Summary: Harry Styles is one of the industry's most successful singers; he's also the most mysterious.When he winds up in hospital once again, his loved ones decide it's time to intervene. With an increasing fan base and media following, and irreversible ties to dangerous gangs, Harry's friends and family are faced with the impossible.Harry is the only one who can pull himself out of the hole he's dug for himself. The question is: does he want to, or is it easier to be lost in obscurity?





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the only way in which the Harry in my story is similar to Harry in real life is in looks and singing career (mainly because he's nice to look at, but also because my imagination sucks and every character I've invented in the past winds up just looking like a mixture of celebrities). The Harry in my story is in no way, shape or form similar to real life Harry in terms of personality.

Epilogue

Extract from Celeb-dish Magazine

27 January 2018

Singer and songwriter, Harry Styles, was rushed to hospital in the early hours of this morning when his manager, Jonathan Harrison, found him unconscious on his bathroom floor. 

Few details have been released since the singer's admittance, however, there is speculation that this could be the singer's second overdose since 2013 when he shot to fame. 

Further speculation has arisen that this frightening event could perhaps have something to do with his alleged involvement with a gang in his youth. 

Little is known about Harry's childhood. His close friends and business associates have revealed that he was in an abusive environment and became involved with a violent gang during his adolescent years. The now twenty-five year old has refused to speak about his past in interviews, and has no form of social media. As a result, the chart-topping award-winner has become somewhat of an enigma in the music industry. 

An anonymous source claims that Harry remains involved with a gang (that has not yet been named), but we have been unsuccessful in verifying this information. This claim, however, would provide a reasonable explanation for some of the star's somewhat questionable scars. Fans and critics alike were shocked just two months ago when a shirtless Harry was photographed talking on the phone with what appeared to be a relatively new scar across his chest. Eagle-eyed fans were quick to recall the now famous red carpet incident from early last year. For those readers who are unfamiliar with the event: Harry arrived at the Magic Music Awards - the most prestigious awards show in Hollywood - with blood on his shirt, and seemingly under the influence. No explanation was ever offered by his management team nor by the star himself. 

As usual, Harry's management team has remained tight-lipped on this morning's hospital dash. Photographs have been released showing the star being carried out of his apartment on a stretcher and placed into an ambulance, though the quality is poor. 

The entertainment industry is, once again, chomping at the bit to find out what the troubled star has landed himself in this time. 

Alexis Joseph


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months before Harry winds up in hospital again, Simon - his manager - is becoming increasingly concerned over Harry's wild behavior and irresponsible attitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is the case with most of my stories, this first chapter isn't incredibly exciting. Its main purpose is to introduce a couple characters and provide limited insight into Harry's life and character. 
> 
> Give the chapter a chance if you can get through the boring ramble, and hopefully the next few chapters will be more exciting for those of you kind enough to stick with it. 
> 
> This chapter might be a little confusing, but things will be explained throughout the story. Bear with me! Also, as you've noticed, I've used the names of other celebrities associated with Harry Styles, but - as stated with Harry's character - they bear no resemblance to the real life people other than physically.

Chapter 1

26 August 2017

"I fucking told you, man," Harry groans, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes, "I haven't touched coke in months." 

Simon sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the growing headache. "I'm not disputing that, Harry," he reasons. He runs a hand through his grey hair. He hates that he's had to do it, but he's subjected Harry to drug tests in an irregular basis to ensure that he remains drug-free. So he knows Harry's telling the truth when he says that he hasn't touched drugs. 

Harry looks at Simon and widens his bright green eyes emphatically. They're bloodshot and watering. "So, what's your point?" He argues. He adjusts his position so that he's perched on the tabletop of the mahogany coffee table in his small dressing-room. 

Simon lowers himself onto the leather couch opposite Harry and crosses his legs. "I'm proud of you for getting off cocaine," he begins. 

"Thank you," Harry interrupts, smiling that broad smile that he's become famous for. It's an empty smile, though. His eyes are clouded. He sniffs, remembering the days when a simple inhale would result in a gush of blood from his destroyed nostrils. 

"Will you shut up?" Simon snaps, his dark eyes narrowing threateningly. 

Harry holds his hands up defensively, but can't help the smirk (a thin, weak one at best) tugging at the corners of his thick lips. As he smiles, the newly-formed scabs on his lips split and begin to bleed. He licks the blood away, barely noticing the coppery taste. 

"You're fucking drunk." Simon spits, jabbing an accusatory finger at Harry. Harry's eyes widen and he huffs dismissively. "You've got a black eye and a giant gash in your lips from who-knows-what last night, and you're still fucking drunk."

"I'm fine," Harry argues, shaking his head dismissively. Simon is right; Harry won't admit it, though - not to Simon and not to himself. As the haziness of intoxication slowly (painfully slowly) begins to fade, he starts to feel the throbbing around his cheek and eye. 

"You're not. You're still in those disgusting clothes from last night. You knew you had an interview today, Harry," Simon cries, gesturing towards Harry's unkempt appearance: scuffed boots, torn jeans, sweat-stained shirt. 

"I'm fine," Harry repeats, softer this time. He looks down at his hands, notices the new grazes covering old scars. He tries desperately to remember the events of last night, but he can't recall anything past the bottle of brandy he downed before his friend picked him up. 

"You look a mess. And you smell. When was the last time you showered?" Simon asks, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. 

Harry frowns as he contemplates the answer. He's not entirely sure of when he last showered. He's not entirely sure of the last time he was sober. He shrugs, raising his thin eyebrows. As he does so, the old scar over the bridge of his nose stretches, reminding him of how tight the poorly healed skin is. The scar is thick and jagged, white against his golden skin. 

"And you showed up an hour late," Simon continues to chastise Harry. 

Harry's cheeks go red and he stands, walking away from Simon and leaning against the dull, beige wall. "I'm fucking here, aren't I?" He spits. He narrows his eyes at his manager in a silent dare. 

"Barely," Simon says. He stands and approaches Harry. He's a few inches shorter than Harry, and nowhere near as muscular, though he's not intimidated in the least. He's only a couple inches from Harry's face, their breath fanning over each other's necks. 

"Fuck you," Harry whispers, crossing his strong arms. His plain grey shirt goes taut over his strong shoulders. There's sweat stains under his armpits and around his neck. 

"I don't know why I put up with your shit," Simon snaps. He's lying; he knows exactly why: without Simon, Harry would've died a long time ago... maybe been in prison at best. Without Harry, Simon would've been a shell of a man. Harry is like a son to Simon; he gives Simon purpose - fills a void, to put it blatantly. 

"Yeah, well," Harry snorts, turning away. He shrugs nonchalantly as he adds, "neither do I." He says it so quietly that Simon doesn't hear him. 

"Shower. Now. You have five minutes. And wash that fucking blood off of your face, damn it." Simon instructs. He turns around and fetches a pile of clean clothes and towels from the couch. As he shoves them in Harry's hands, he says, "I was worried, you know."

"What?" Harry asks, grabbing the pile. He lets Simon usher him into the ensuite bathroom of the television show's dressing-room. He can barely walk straight as he keeps stumbling over his own feet and nearly tripping. He would face plant were it not for Simon's grip on his shirt. 

"I called a million times. Came to pick you up at your place. It's a mess, by the way."

"You went into my house?" Harry slurs. As he enters the small bathroom, he kicks off his boots and sighs in relief. He cocks an eyebrow and pulls down his pants clumsily. He starts urinating, missing the toilet, hardly caring that Simon is still in the room. 

"Jesus," Simon groans, covering his eyes and walking out of the room with his shoulders hunched in resignation. He leans in and places the pile of clothes and towels on the granite countertop beside the sink before he shuts the door behind him. "We can talk about this when you're sober. You better get your shit together before this interview, Harry. I'm not joking." 

"I'm not joking," Harry mocks quietly as he undresses, his coordination severely lacking. 

He keeps slipping, but he eventually makes it into the shower and manages to wash the dirt and blood from his face and body - he hopes. He can't really feel much other than his racing heart and burning face. Once done, he slips out of the shower, stomping on the piles of discarded clothes strewn across the tiny bathroom floor. He needs to pick them up; but he'll do it later when he can see straight - when he has two hands instead of four. 

A knock on the door chases Harry and he hurriedly pulls on the tight black jeans and white button-up shirt that Simon gave him. He pulls the socks on - inside out, not that he notices - as he fights the rising nausea. He thanks his lucky stars that his boots are slip-ons and don't have to be zipped or tied. As he rises from where he was getting dressed cross-legged on the cold floor, he doubles over again and barely makes it to the toilet in time before vomit spills from his lips. He thinks it's all in the toilet bowl; then again, he thought he was peeing in the toilet earlier, too, but the yellow liquid soaking into the knees of his jeans as he kneels beside the toilet suggests otherwise. 

"Brush your teeth!" Simon calls through the door, grimacing at the sound of Harry's heaving. 

"Yeah," Harry calls back, pushing himself to his feet and lamely brushing his teeth. He has to shut one eye and narrow the other just to get the toothpaste on the toothbrush without missing (mostly). He brushes until the stinging of the fresh mint becomes too much and he spits it out - into the sink, he hopes. Just in time, it seems, because Simon comes barreling in as he finishes up. 

"Harry," Simon sighs, his tone suggesting he's disappointed. He is upset, but he's not disappointed. He understands why Harry is like this. "You're still a mess." He whispers as he straightens Harry's shirt (buttoning buttons in the correct places) and uses the hand towel to wipe toothpaste from Harry's chin. 

Harry nudges Simon in the chest gently, his gaze steely. He hates people being in his space. Simon hands him deodorant and he sprays it excessively until his nose stings. For a moment, he worries that it'll ster bleeding; it doesn't - perks of getting off of cocaine. 

The bathroom is a mess: vomit and urine cover the floor; bloodied and sweat-drenched clothes are strewn across the white tiles; soap and shampoo are splattered across the glass door of the small shower; toothpaste and spit is drying on the mirror above the basin and on the granite counter surrounding it. Simon bites his bottom lip thoughtfully as he studies the mess of a bathroom; nothing he hasn't seen before. 

"Fix your hair," Simon reminds Harry as he escorts him out of the bathroom and through the dimly lit dressing room. 

Harry rakes large hands through unruly, wet hair and clumsily stumbles beside Simon as the latter guides him out of the room and into the passageway outside. The passage is brightly lit with fluorescent lighting, and the walls and floor and ceiling are all covered in the same polished concrete. Technicians and sound engineers and assistants with earpieces are running up and down the hallway, clearly all on a mission. 

Simon grips the shoulder of the tall mess of a man beside him and heads towards the stage. He's worried; the interview will be taped in front of a live studio audience and Harry is in terrible shape. He reminds himself that Harry's never been sober in a single interview before; he's never been great with people, either, yet he's still topping charts around the world and selling out stadiums. His destructive behavior seems to attract interest, and interest means sales. It helps that he's good looking, because it earns him throngs of dedicated female fans who defend his every word and move - even when they shouldn't. And the kid has talent. 

As they stagger down the passageway, they receive many concerned looks, and even more disapproving ones. Simon has learnt to ignore the glares and stares. 

When Simon and Harry reach the entrance to the stage, a technician in black clothing is waiting for them. He does a double-take when he spots Harry and Simon, but remains tight-lipped. A friendly assistant hops up and - for a moment - considers getting Harry's attention. Noticing the way he's swaying slightly and the swollen, bruised skin around his eye, she decides otherwise. She gently taps Simon on the arm. 

"Mister Cowell, sir, we're running behind schedule. Would you and Mister Styles like to take a seat with our other guests in the waiting room?" She asks kindly. She has large brown eyes and wild hair in a puffy Afro that so perfectly frames her dainty face. 

"Yeah," Simon says, shrugging, "thanks."

"Can I have something to drink?" Harry asks her, cupping his hand around her shoulder. He only leaves it there for a second before removing it, uncomfortable with the contact. 

"Not alcoholic," Simon snaps impatiently. He pauses for a moment. "Will you get him a water, please?"

"I'll get you a bottle," she says, glancing at Harry. She studies him intently before returning her gaze to Simon and further suggesting, "and perhaps some coffee?"

"Yes please," Simon says quickly. 

They follow her to the waiting room and Harry manages to gather his wits just enough to shrug off Simon's grip on his shoulder. He's composed himself to such an extent that he doesn't look like a mess, but he's still not perfectly presentable. Simon has resigned to accepting that that's part of his charm. 

They enter the small waiting room - a brightly lit room thanks to wall-to-wall windows and white walls. On the navy blue couch, Louis Tomlinson - an up-and-coming actor - is sitting beside his manager and chatting quietly. They look up as Harry and Simon enter and their faces both light up excitedly. 

"I'll be right back with water and coffee," the young assistant says to Simon as she shuts the door behind him. 

Harry stumbles toward the nearest couch and plonks down unceremoniously. Simon steps forward and greets Louis and his manager as they stand uncertainly. He's relieved when Harry does the same, albeit slightly unenthusiastically. 

"Louis Tomlinson," Louis says excitedly as he sits back down. 

Simon takes a seat on the couch adjacent to Harry and smiles thinly. "I know who you are," he says warmly, "and I'm a big fan."

The assistant enters the room a second later with two bottles of water and a large cup of coffee. She hands one bottle to Simon, who thanks her softly, and places the other water and the coffee on the wooden table beside Harry. 

"Thank fuck!" Harry exclaims, his muscular body contorting so that he can reach the water. As he downs the bottle in one massive gulp, his defined muscles tremble.

Simon wonders for a moment when the last time was that Harry ate. 

The assistant giggles awkwardly and exits the room. 

There's a moment of awkward silence as all eyes are on Harry. He scrunches the plastic water bottle into a ball and tosses it across the room. It lands in the dustbin, impressively. 

"I'm Susan," Louis' manager says, clearly trying to draw attention away from Harry. Susan is a tall, slim woman with tidy braids and light brown eyes the same color as her flawless skin. She's about Simon's age, but looks far younger. 

"Nice to meet you, Susan," Simon says, smiling broadly, "I'm Simon." 

"I know." She says. 

Beside Simon, Harry crosses his long, toned legs and starts fidgeting. Simon's lips form a thin line and he awkwardly lets his gaze meet Susan's. Susan smiles comfortingly and shrugs, jerking her head toward Louis jokingly in a gesture implying that she understands. Simon stifles an amused laugh. 

"And you're Harry Styles," Susan says, jerking her chin towards Harry. She intertwines her long, thin fingers on her lap. She's wearing a white jumpsuit that looks gorgeous against her dark complexion. 

"Yeah," Harry says, shrugging. He rubs the heels of his hands against his stinging eyes and throws his head back as he swallows the bile rising in his throat. 

"Rough one last night, eh?" Louis asks in an attempt to make conversation. 

Simon glances at Harry in all of his sweaty, bruised glory. Louis is smiling, clearly undeterred by Harry's appearance. 

"Eh," Harry grunts. He lifts his arms and lets them rest along the top of the back of the couch. 

"I love your music," Louis tries again. He's trying hard to make conversation, but Harry's never been one for idle chit-chat. Many interviewers have stated publicly that interviewing Harry is like pulling teeth. He barely speaks to Simon, and they've known each other for a decade. 

"Thanks, mate," Harry mutters. He coughs violently and his hand instantly reaches up to press against the still-healing scar across his chest in an attempt to lessen the pain. His face crumples for a moment at the unexpected pain. 

Simon grimaces sympathetically, and one look around the room indicates that the others have noticed the little gesture. He grasps for a topic of conversation to distract Susan and Louis. 

"You were in '1314', weren't you?" Simon asks. He smiles when Susan and Louis reluctantly tear their gazes away from Harry, who's still tense and gripping his chest. 

"Yeah," Louis says proudly. He's new to the business, and he has entered a bang. 

"It's a fantastic movie," Simon comments genuinely. He enjoyed it - a movie portraying Scotland's struggle for independence. 

"Pretty decent, mate," Harry agrees. His voice is raspy - as it always has been - and hardened from years of drug and alcohol abuse. "Anyone got a cigarette?"

"I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here," Louis mumbles awkwardly. He points at a white and red sign on the door that clearly indicates that smoking is strictly prohibited. 

Harry raises his eyebrows and smirks weakly. He doesn't even glance at the sign. Simon rolls his eyes. "I won't burn the place down." He says. There's a moment of strained silence as Susan and Louis fidget uncomfortably. 

"Here," Susan says eventually, effortlessly slipping a menthol-flavored cigarette from her tan leather handbag and passing it to Harry. 

Harry stretches over, extending a long arm and taking it from her surprisingly gently. "Thank you," he rasps, letting the corner of his mouth lift slightly into the tiniest semblance of a smile. 

She nods wordlessly and holds a hand over the cigarette resting between Harry's lips as she lights it with a custom lighter. Her manicured hands are steady. 

Simon cocks a thick eyebrow and glances at Louis. Louis has a slight build and a mousy face, but there's a boyish charm about him. Like Harry, he's covered in tattoos that peak out from beneath his golf shirt. "So, Louis, this is your first time on the show. Right?" Simon asks amicably. 

Louis nods and his blue eyes widen cartoonishly. "Yeah," he says, "it's kinda fucking scary."

"It's the most watched show in Britain, so he's a little nervous," Susan explains, making deliberate eye contact with Simon. 

"Mate, there ain't nothing to worry about," Harry pipes up from the sidelines. He's smoking in the room, tapping the cigarette off in a nearby pot plant so as to prevent ash covering the wooden floor. He's got the cup of coffee in the other hand, and he's making short work of it. His hand is so large it almost covers the entire white mug. 

"I don't want to mess up," Louis admits. 

Simon chuckles to himself. He can't help but compare Louis's first ever pre-show jitters to Harry's; Harry was high and barely able to hold a conversation. The next day, sales sky-rocketed. The public is fickle. 

"Just... tell the truth," Harry shrugs noncommittally. His brow furrows. His black eye is darkening quite rapidly. His scuffed knuckles are a little distracting, too. 

"Ah, mostly," Susan disagrees hesitantly, "but there's nothing wrong with a couple added or removed details." She has a strange accent that Simon can't quite place. 

Harry tilts his head nonchalantly, but says nothing as he stubs his cigarette in the empty coffee mug and places it on the wooden side table. He disagrees with her, but he doesn't care enough to argue. 

"Mister Styles, you're up in five," the assistant says as she pops her head back into the room. Harry stands on slightly wobbly legs but quickly regains his composure as he heads toward her. "Mister Cowell, you may come watch from backstage if you like."

Simon stands and smiles politely at Susan and Louis. "Lovely to meet you both," he says as he shakes their hands and follows Harry and the assistant out of the room. All Harry offers as a goodbye is a halfhearted thumbs-up over his shoulder as he walks out of the room. Harry still smells strongly of booze. 

As they close the door behind them, Simon hears Susan say, "He's as rebellious as they say."

It's slightly muffled, but Simon is sure he hears Louis say, "He's cool. I like him."

Simon sighs - same reaction as always. 

"Can I get you something to drink to take out there?" The pretty assistant asks as she calls a nerdy sound technician with large glasses and a mop of blonde hair. He rushes over with a wire and clip-on microphone. 

"Brandy, please," Harry replies without hesitation. 

"We don't have brandy, but I can get you a beer." She says, gripping her wooden clipboard closely to her chest. Her gaze darts to Simon and she grimaces in uncertainty. 

Simon shrugs. 

"Two, please." 

"Can I get you anything, Mister Cowell?" She asks. 

Simon shakes his head, lifting his hand to show her that he still has the bottle of water she got for him. She nods in acknowledgement before scurrying off for a moment. 

The sound technician is busy unraveling the wire for the mic. "Please lift your shirt, sir," he asks Harry. Harry obliges wordlessly, staring at something in the distance. As he lifts his shirt, he exposes the jagged, ugly, old scar on his stomach. It's uneven and raised. The technician pauses for a second, taken off guard, but continues without further distractions as he expertly places the wire and secures the mic. Once the sound technician is done with placement, he straightens. Harry taps his shoulder appreciatively and he scuttles off with a proud grin plastered across his face. 

The assistant returns a moment later with the two beers and hands them to Harry, already opened. "Thank you," Harry says, squinting and bending down to look at her chest, "Bernice." He reads it off of her name tag. 

She smiles in amusement. "It's Brenda," she corrects him. She's suddenly blushing. "And, you're welcome." 

Harry lifts a shoulder apologetically. Simon shakes his head and leans against the wall on his left. As he watches Harry down the first bottle of beer in one sip, Simon decides it's time to speak to Harry about his behavior. It was funny at first, and it helped him create a name for himself, but it's becoming destructive. He missed his interview at Hot Radio Station two days ago, and Simon found Harry passed out in the stairwell outside his apartment. Simon can't remember the last time Harry didn't have bags under his eyes, the last time Harry wasn't injured in one way or another. He's had enough close calls in the past. 

Brenda, the pretty assistant, gently guides Harry to the side of the stage and gives him a short brief on where to go and what to do. Harry nods as though he understands, but he hasn't listened to a single word she's said. He can hardly focus on the objects in front of him, never mind listen to and remember instructions. 

Brenda gives him a gentle push when it's his turn to go on stage. Harry walks out into blinding lights and unbelievable heat, his staggering entrance accompanied by enthusiastic applause from the audience. He suddenly realizes that he still has two beer bottles in his hand. As the world-famous talk show host, Jerry Smith, attempts to greet Harry by clasping his shoulder, Harry turns around and chucks the empty beer bottle softly at Brenda. She catches it, barely. 

Despite the audience's laughter, and Jerry's uncertain yet amused guffaw, Simon grimaces. He buries his face in his hands, preparing himself for the mess of an interview about to ensue. 

His anxiety is only worsened as Harry decides to chug the second bottle of beer before he takes a seat, and hands it to Brenda when it's empty. It's met by more roars of laughter, and a couple disapproving shakes of the head and mumbles from both audience members and backstage crew. 

It would be great if it were a publicity stunt, but as Harry returns his attention to the host, he's unaware of his actions. All he knows is that he wants another cigarette, another beer, and he really, really wants a line of coke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the slow chapter. Shit will begin to happen soon I promise.


End file.
